


to bleed on paper is to create

by honestlyfrance



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artist/Model, Angst, Bucky Barnes is a Poet, Bucky Barnes is a nude model, Exhibitionist themes, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Makeouts, Mutual Pining, Sam Wilson is an amateur artist, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23625427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestlyfrance/pseuds/honestlyfrance
Summary: “What does this mean…” Sam whispered, setting his forehead on Bucky’s shoulder.“We could…” Bucky trailed off, then he became silent, “What do you want?”orSam, an amateur artist, and Bucky, an international nude model, blur the lines of work, ending up being unprofessional to the point that they'd need to end it.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27





	to bleed on paper is to create

**Author's Note:**

> this is for my Alternate Universe square for the sambucky bingo! The AU I used is an original idea of mine (or somewhat I thought of myself lmao) which is an Artist/Model AU!
> 
> If you might read it, it looks like the last chapter of a multi-chaptered fic but to be fair, it's part of some universe I'm just not able to write the whole thing :) maybe a series soon, but oh well, it's definitely going into a descending order :0 also, you can't really expect me to NOT write poetic claims and compare the love of two idiots to Achilles/Patroclus, Icarus, and the fuckin sun ;)
> 
> So, yeah! Enjoy!

The way the sunlight streamed in through the musty French windows was of grandeur and an absolute aesthetic to the abandoned atmosphere, whisking the abandoned ballroom into another century too old for tales, yet it felt like home:  _ like we belong _ . It’s here that the room looked like a filtered nude brown as jagged columns high as the sky reached the half-finished mural on the ceiling, raggedy pale nude curtains decorated itself with holes drawn aside to let the sunlight dance on the marble tiles like mosaics on a Cathedral; this architectural beauty wasn’t done yet — construction beams and debris nets design the far end of the unfinished floor plan, and there’s much to do to make this room the final product.

In the empty expanse of the ballroom was one lone creaky bed, the clean cream sheets shoved to the side and the bed frame rusted with golden paint. Two figures were lazing on the bed, one half-naked and one fully clothed, too close together to call it anything but intimate. Their atoms buzzed together, seemingly forever and nowhere at the same time, as if they finally felt at peace with each other’s existence, almost as if they wanted nothing more than to lay in each other’s arms, feeling the other finally breathe so freely it should’ve been a sin to be so lax and human as if  _ lovely _ and  _ heavenly _ all the same, they’ve reinvented the very definition of such thing as if they’re the very essence of it.

Bucky Barnes was resting on his elbow, his bare chest free for the eyes as the lower part of his body was wrapped with the thin sheets that came with the raggedy bed. His breathing was relaxed and free, and he couldn't help but inhale the scent of the entire atmosphere; paint buckets lining the window sills and rose pots displayed at the double doors of the ballroom, mixing in together so beautifully it had a personality of its own. His fingers were lightly pulling at the sheet, feeling the softness like a desperate lover, you couldn’t help but take note of the adoration written in his eyes, and if he could, he would take that adoration to the stars, because right in front of him was Sam Wilson, in a criss-cross position as he sketched away on his sketchpad, his tongue gracing his lip slightly in concentration, and Bucky wanted nothing more than to place the pad of his thumb on the man’s mouth and to tell him to  _ shut up and let me love you _ right here,  _ right now _ . 

Bucky’s eyes were glinting with genuine idolization, wanting nothing more but to throw away his beliefs to make Sam the leader of it all, or instead, wanting to serve the man before him, to save the man right beside him, and to unconditionally love the man like no god has ever thought of before. His heart was pounding in his throat, making it dry and him unable to voice every little enthusiastic poetic claim he wants to tell Sam. Does Sam know how much Bucky’s lungs grow blue from depriving himself of air just so Sam could breathe freely? Does Sam know how much love pounded in Bucky’s chest that he just wanted to rip his stomach wide open to let it pounce right out of him? Does Sam know how much thrill Bucky gets from his sight alone that he couldn’t help but want to drown himself to slow down the pace of adrenaline in his veins? Will Sam ever know how much Bucky painfully starves himself of this love because he never wanted to be full of it, always afraid that if he took it all with open arms he’d never have this ecstasy ever again?

He fights the urge to grace his knuckles against Sam’s cheekbone, being delicately layered with the golden sun rays the sunset outside had blessed them with. Bucky fights the want to lean into Sam’s space and lay down beside him, embracing Sam with all of his body and never letting go, afraid that he’d miss him the next time they escape each other’s grasps. Bucky wanted to plant himself like a tree and scream at the fate the stars had set out for him, begging the universe to let him rest with the man he had found to love  _ because it’s too much _ — God, it’s too  _ deadly _ , it sickens, it  _ pains _ Bucky to even love Sam because it’s too intense to hide it. Bucky needed to yell out Sam Wilson’s name to the suns and beg Icarus to rise once more to grace Sam with wings made of wax, forever intact in legend and forever an angel of the stars. There’s nothing more desperate than to want this badly, and Bucky’s too greedy to share the man with anyone else, always wanting Sam to stay and never loosen his grasp—  _ Please. Just hold me close and never look back _ , Sam,  _ please. Love me as I do you and never know of heartache. It’s below us to digress. _

Bucky’s too tired to voice it, but he wants to bury himself in the ground just because Sam had smiled at him, always feeling the need to appear small to make up for being…  _ himself _ . It’s not insecurity, it’s the idea of knowing you would only suffice; just being enough. Have you met Sam, you’d know that the man is full of service, and it wouldn’t take too long to learn to love him to the brink of exhaustion, and in the end, you wouldn’t think your love would be enough to satiate a man such as him, deserving of every last drop of love anyone could ever offer. You’d have the sudden urge to brace yourself for the god-like abilities the man has, and his smile alone is one of them. 

Sam, on the other hand, didn’t think so, always burying himself six-feet below whenever anyone gave him a slice of heaven, because maybe it was too much, needed to make up every amateur thing he did by making sure no one saw him as a professional. It’s not healthy, and it’s not what he knew was right,  _ but it did _ ; it felt right to dwindle into nothingness and blend into the wallpaper because maybe it was easier, maybe he was tired of the attention towards him, needed to forget himself to truly feel like himself again. 

All Sam wanted was Bucky to stop staring at him as if every constellation known to man was in his eyes, knowing full well that Bucky was an astronomer and would want nothing more but to drown in his irises Bucky had claimed to “ _ have the fates of every person written in the stars _ ” as if Sam would  _ believe _ such folly. Sam wanted nothing more but to bury this immense feeling of warmth that grows in his chest every time Bucky  _ moved _ as if a  _ danseur _ dancing to the melody that is his heartbeats as if dedicating his every move to the sun and the stars, wanting nothing more to make art in the form of  _ love _ if such dedication existed in the first place. Yet, it did — Sam just didn’t want to believe it. 

Sam stared intently on his sketchpad for so long that his neck began to strain at the weight of it, his hand diligently making careful light strokes with his charcoal. Sam could feel Bucky’s eyes on his clothed body, and he wanted nothing more but to run away because— “ _it’s too much, don’t you dare see me so vulnerable to you!_ _Don’t ever let me fall for you_ ,” Sam wanted to say, but with Bucky’s eyes and playful smile, Sam would begin to judge himself, because why _must I run away from a man who made me know he wouldn’t let me down?_ “ _I care about him_ ,” Bucky said to himself, and he made sure of it that night when he held Sam that close, under the stars peeking through the windows, and under the same mural above them. It was an intimate getup, with the way Sam had clutched onto Bucky’s coat in the cold, Bucky rubbing Sam’s back in careful circles, and that _could’ve_ been the time when they admitted they loved the other — forever buried in secret, _because they were professionals, goddamnit._ They shouldn’t be this close, and it _hurts_ just to think of it.

Sam shook his head, stifling down a laugh; his smile alone, Bucky thinks, could challenge suns on its own. “Can’t believe you stripped down,” he said, and Bucky, right on cue, raised his arms to stretch his bare torso, a smirk on his face as Sam continued with an eye roll, “It’s  _ way _ past our session, Barnes,”

“Oh, but I pose so well,” Bucky pouted, shaking his head side to side, as if to show Sam his new haircut, which, to Sam’s dismay, was disappointing (now that he didn’t have hair to model) but also… great (to be fair, Bucky looked great in any hairstyle, as his portfolio had suggested), “Sammy, I swear, you were the one who asked me to take off my pants. Noah fence, but, uh—” he leaned into Sam’s space, his hot breath lingering on Sam’s neck before making his way to his ear, “—it looks like you were tryna  _ cop a feel,” _

Sam snickered, pushing a laughing Bucky away from him. “You can’t just use my lines like that! Where’s your originality?” he smacked Bucky’s bare thigh with his sketchpad. Bucky had his face deep into the sheets, his bare ass displayed for Sam. Sam huffed, trying his best to look away with a roll of his eyes, “If anything,  _ you _ were the one who wanted me down naked as a babe on this bed,” he picked back up his charcoal and began mindlessly drawing rectangles and squares of all sizes, “Which, by the way, I have to remind you,  _ I’m _ the artist and you’re the model, alright?” he grunted, sighing, “I  _ literally _ pay you to look good,”

Bucky bit his lip between his teeth, his eyes full of adoration for the man before him. He let his lip go as his face beamed with a smile, almost hiding it away as he sat up. “Oh, shut up! Yes, you look good in your shirt, while I look good in these  _ sheets _ ,” he spoke playfully, tilting his head up, “C’mere,” he waved Sam over, and the man immediately came over to him that Bucky had to raise in eyebrows at that; Sam snorted and shied his head away, his hands limp on the sketchpad. 

Bucky grabbed the sketchpad from Sam and set it on his bare thighs, his knee pressing against the fabric of Sam’s pants. They were so close together that they could feel each other’s breath trickling their necks, yet neither one moved away, too deep into this mess to even bother to cover it up, as if it was a secret only the two of them knew, but so what if it was? Love, in itself, was a secret, after all — between tales of old and bedsheets adorned with gold, lovers would always leave their love untold. Bucky grinned and flipped over Sam’s paper to work on a new one, taking the charcoal from Sam’s hands, their fingers brushing together for a moment — the moment felt too quick for Bucky he felt a  _ spark _ form.

The way Bucky moved the charcoal was…  _ painful _ to any artist. He pointed the sharp tip on the paper and decided that it was a ballpen, drawing a lazy and childish drawing of a stickman with, what Bucky had explained as,  _ angel wings _ . Sam only turned away to stifle his laughter, because, between the two of them,  _ he _ was the artist, not Bucky, the nude model Steve had been paying for since Sam’s birthday. Bucky had his tongue stuck out, trying his best to make it the best piece he would ever make. His eyes catch themselves watching Sam bite down his smile; the man stared out of the windows at the side, his eyes having a glint that matched the golden hour that swept the room, and it’s beautiful — it’s  _ too _ beautiful that Bucky had to stop for a minute to ingest the moment, wanting to mark the portrait into the stars for future astronauts to discover, making them wonder,  _ Who was this mysterious man? _ only for a manuscript of Bucky’s to say:  _ He’s mine, forever angelic and young _ .

Sam glanced back at Bucky for a moment, his heart catching at his throat when he saw Bucky looking away and failing to make it seem that he didn’t. Bucky had chuckled a little that Sam had followed, and when Sam had glanced down at the drawing Bucky did, he couldn’t help but groan at the sketch, earning a satisfying laugh from the man which echoed in the vast ballroom. 

“I mean, I’m no artist,” Bucky spoke, wiping at the paper with his palm. The charcoal then smudged the entire drawing, and as Sam burst into unfiltered laughter, Bucky tried his best at highlighting back at the hard lines of the stick figure, grunting the whole time in agony and embarrassment, “Stop laughing!” his voice boomed in the silence, which only made Sam fall back on the bed from laughter, “Hng, stop laughing,” Bucky had a smile on his face nonetheless, blowing at the paper and wincing afterward, afraid that the crude drawing would worsen.

Sam wheezed as he smacked Bucky’s knee, holding his hand right there for a second longer you would’ve thought he wanted to let it melt right there. “I’m not, I’m not,” he said in between chuckles, the side of his face buried in the sheets as his eyes caught Bucky’s face gleaming under the light, captured in an awe-struck position that makes Sam feel  _ whole _ . 

Bucky narrowed his eyes at Sam, and without faltering eye contact, he ripped the page away, clutching the paper close to his chest that it almost crumpled. “Now,  _ you _ draw. Let’s see who’s a better artist, huh,” he challenged, shoving the sketchpad and charcoal back to Sam on the bed, still wheezing and grunting from the pain in his ribs. 

Sam snickered as he pulled back at his page with the shapes he drew a while ago, taking the charcoal from him; Bucky moved to rest his elbow on Sam’s knee, Bucky’s chin on his palm as he looked up at Sam with pure unfiltered adoration, as if Sam created the sun itself, wielding such a power science itself couldn’t begin to explain. Sam sighed as he began to fill in thumbnails of all sorts, ones of actual people, a portrait, or of inanimate objects, and it’s  _ so _ obvious he didn’t know what to draw until he decided to draw the man before him in the said position.  _ It’s all I’m good at _ , Sam guessed. It’s something he’s good at — something that just comes as  _ natural _ , and if it was the case, he  _ would _ draw Bucky Barnes until the end of time; if he’d be brave enough to admit that sentiment.

Bucky huffed as Sam continued to move his hand up and around the page, and it’s all loose and methodological, and Bucky may not trust artists in general, he had to be fair: he  _ liked _ Sam than the rest of the artists he had come in terms with. The others were egoistic and arrogant, while Sam’s just— natural, like, he doesn’t change for anyone, and he has his sense of style that may not be distinct, but it’s  _ his _ and he’s not trying to be famous, Sam’s just trying to be  _ better,  _ and he is, Sam’s just too—

Bucky clapped his hands, arching his back as a grin graces his lips. “Okay, let's see yours,” he suddenly had his hands on the sketchpad, and Sam had unwillingly handed it over to the man with a frown. Bucky smirked, resting the sketchpad on his knee as he scooted closer to Sam, “Oh, wow,” he spoke, double-taking for a moment at the vague figure which he figured was himself, and elbow to the knee with a pouty look. The way Sam shaded his drawings was Bucky’s favorite thing in the world, so he was excited when he saw how Sam tried his best to make the sunlight dance on the paper. Bucky was speechless for a moment, and Sam may call  _ this _ one crude, but Bucky doesn’t exactly see that. He sees talent, he sees  _ potential _ , he sees—

“Yeah, I’m not yet done with that, Barnes,” Sam spoke, scratching his chin, accidentally getting charcoal on his skin, “Can— I can make it better, hold on,” he had his hands set on his sketchpad, but Bucky’s grip was stronger. He tugged on it, but Bucky only had pressed a finger on the stain on Sam’s chin, trying his best to remove it; it had only spread, and when Bucky had swiped his thumb on his tongue for him to wipe it off— “Yeah! I think I got it, thank you,” Sam interjected, but he didn’t make any move to fix the stain. Bucky’s breath was hot against his bare skin, and it didn’t help that Bucky’s body was barely covered. It was just too much.

Bucky hummed, raising his eyebrows, grabbing his paper from behind him, presenting it by laying it flat on his chest. “Obviously, mine is better—” he beamed brightly; Sam rolled his eyes as he tossed his sketchpad away, “—since I've done this aimlessly, and look at that masterpiece,” he smacked the paper too hard that it creased, but he wasn’t done, “I didn't use a thumbnail this time. You?” he gently took the sketchpad and laid it next to his own, “You've done several and look at the final piece,” he tapped on his paper, his eyes targeting Sam, stifling his laughter, “absolutely fantastical to the point of  _ I can't believe it.  _ Your lines are hesitant and deep, look at that charcoal,” he pulled a face as he set aside the pad, “Absolute disgrace. Get out. This is the only piece that matters, let's just—”

Bucky stood up, almost tripping on the sheets as he began to walk around the room naked. Sam burst into laughter as Bucky waddled over to the bed frame, scratching off a piece of patterned washi tape they’ve left here from the last session. He plopped back down on the bed, Sam comfortably laying back down on his back as he eyed Bucky raising the sketchpad.

“Alright, tape it right here,” Bucky spoke, folding his paper at the excess paper, taping it right beside Sam’s drawing, covering the multiple thumbnails, “Finite! That’s the only signature you’re ever going to need,” he flashed a smile at Sam, lying right next to him with a propped up elbow, the sketchpad now abandoned at the side.

Sam sighed in content, rubbing his eyes as he turned his head away. “You’re going to be the death of me, Barnes,”

Bucky hummed, his eyes tracing the structure of Sam’s jaw, and was it just him or did Sam look stunning today with  _ just _ a mustard shirt? Bucky swears, he may be the model, having international and local projects, but Sam takes the cake, looking like a complete meal— but, to be fair, Sam looks…  _ unreal _ , in Bucky’s eyes. As if a gift from the universe, alien to the public, because why is there a man like Sam walking on earth, a literal dump? Bucky didn’t want to go rough with a man like Sam, because Sam deserves every gentle thing in the world, and what’s  _ he  _ going to bring on the table?

They somehow meet eyes, gentle and full of want, neither of the two knowing what they  _ truly _ want— or need. There’s this tension in the air they couldn’t put a name to, and it hurts just to acknowledge it because  _ they didn’t want to _ . Whatever they have right at the moment was too good to let go. Sam meets up with Bucky three hours a day, and Bucky strips down for him in some art studio Sam has pulled out from his pocket; Bucky wouldn’t admit it, but the reason why he comes early to their sessions was so Sam could walk in on him already displayed and poised for their session, and it’s not just so he could see Sam come in flustered and already knowing what’s going to happen, but it’s not because he gets off of it, no— Bucky has manners, and it’s on their contract. The need to act professionally, however… their eyes say  _ no _ but their bodies seem to say  _ please _ . 

Bucky’s knuckles find itself grazing the sharp jawline of Sam, the man’s eyes wide, waiting for his next move. “So, does this mean I’m the last thing you’d want to see before you die?” Bucky whispered, low and heavy. 

Sam felt a chill run down his neck, yet it disappeared as he furrowed his eyebrows, almost scoffing as his eyes sent a weird look at Bucky. “I— What?” he cleared his throat, burying his face into the sheets, “No, Barnes. What are you trying to do—”

Bucky snorted, burying his face into the sheets. “I have no fuckin’ clue. I haven’t eaten in days, I think I’m losing it,”

“We ate yesterday.”

“I know, I’m still losing it,” Bucky whispered, smiling to himself.

“Whatever you say, Barnes,” Sam spoke softly, a smile creeping on his features. “Just don’t lose yourself soon,”

“Bucky,” he spoke, resting his head beside Sam’s, their breaths mixing. It made it feel wrong to look away. They shared a stifled smile, Bucky’s eyes not daring to look away from the way Sam clenched his jaw, fearing that if he looked directly in the man’s eyes he’d suddenly lose the function to speak, “You can call me Bucky, okay,”

“Bucky…” Sam shook his head, grunting as he spoke, “No. We gotta keep it professional,”

“So you bring every girl here?” Bucky raised his eyebrows, but it didn't turn Sam’s wary look into joy, “Sam, Mr. Wilson, look at where we are. Does  _ this _ count as professional? We’ve blurred the lines, I’m afraid, and it doesn’t look like we’re stopping our contract any time soon,”

Sam’s eyebrows furrowed deeper, his lips contorting into a strained frown, his eyes settling on Bucky’s bare chest. “Don’t… Don’t call me that,”

“Don’t call you  _ what _ , Sir?”

“Sir— Mister—  _ That _ . I’m…” Sam shook his head, turning his body away to face the end of the bed, his breathing hardened as his eyes lurked the endless abyss of the ballroom. He could hear his heartbeat now, echoing in the expanse, as if reminding him of how lonely the place was— but Bucky was here; isn’t he? “Oh, God… We blurred the lines….  _ Fuck you, Steve _ ,”

Bucky’s smirk had appeared for a split second. “We’re blaming Steve now? Poor Steeb,” his sigh was heavy, and Sam had to stop himself from arching his back, “To be fair… I don’t regret it… I don’t regret it…  _ this _ ,”

“What if I do?” Sam whispered, his sigh shaky.

Bucky’s arm snaked itself around Sam’s waist, earning a satisfying exhale from Sam. Bucky pressed their bodies together, and Sam could feel the warmth of Bucky’s skin through his thin shirt fabric. Bucky inhaled the scent of Sam, his heartbeat drums in his ears, needing to close his eyes to steer his focus away from the way Bucky’s fingers lightly lift his shirt, fingers grazing skin so gently, and it felt nice as he exhaled deeply, because it felt like heaven every  _ time _ Bucky would receive a slimmer of touch Sam lets him, as if forbidden fruit. 

“I want you so bad,” Bucky murmured into Sam’s shirt, clutching the fabric tighter until Sam finally gets the message. 

“Then come  _ want _ me.”

Bucky lifted his head, and it didn’t take long for their lips to meet, almost crashing against each other, wanting as much as the other as if  _ oxygen _ didn’t matter. The kiss was soft at first, slow as if they wanted to take the moment, to let the feel of the other become  _ ingrained _ into their lips, never wanting to forget what heaven truly feels like. Bucky placed a hand behind Sam’s neck to bring him closer, earning a satisfying groan from the man as he propped himself on his elbows. Another hand had run gently on Sam’s stomach, feeling skin as if Bucky would never know what it was again. The kiss becomes dirtier by the second, and no sooner had Bucky sat up, bringing Sam with him as he settled him on his lap. They never left each other’s lips, hands resting on each other as if wanting to melt into each other’s touch, afraid that  _ this _ is the last time they’ll ever hold the other close, and so maybe it was; tomorrow comes so quick, they wouldn’t be surprised if they wake up jetlagged. It didn’t take long for Bucky’s hand to lift Sam’s shirt over his head, the man so eager to take it off and toss it to the side, bracing his thighs at either side of Bucky as he kisses him even deeper, wanting this one to last longer than the others; Sam finds himself trailing kisses down Bucky’s neck down to his collarbone, enjoying the way Bucky’s hands hold him close, and even though it may make things harder, but it  _ felt _ right.

There’s a loud bang at the end of the ballroom, but Sam just moans into the kiss, languid and deep that Bucky couldn’t help but let go of Sam to whisper into his ear, “ _ I love you so bad _ ,” trailing sharp and quick kisses down Sam’s neck while dragging his nails down his bare hips, his hands together to slip down the waistband of Sam’s shorts. Sam lowers himself onto Bucky, arching his back at the sensation as Bucky catches his lips one more time.

Sam is the first one to push away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, as if it could settle his shaking heart and sweating body. He rummages to pull his shorts back, lurching forward to grab his shirt from the floor. Bucky was still in a daze, resting on his elbows as he tried to catch his breath, Sam in front of him with his arms and muscles moving like  _ that _ — and the way the golden hour sun settled on his skin like some sort of glitter — there’s too much to process here for Bucky, couldn’t think straight for a moment. All Bucky could think of was how stained he was of charcoal, his neck and jawline practically grey with the substance that he couldn’t help but run his fingers down them to sweep them off. Bucky was so much in a daze that he didn’t even notice that Sam was now sitting by the headboard with his back pressed against it, his legs crossed together as he exhausted himself with whatever he had on his sketchpad.

Bucky turned his head and immediately crumbled the sheets at his bare lower part of him, cheeks flaring red with his hair a mess as Steve Rogers walked down to them. Steve had a huge lopsided grin on his face as he plopped down on Sam, grunting at Steve’s sudden weight. Bucky huffed as he watched Steve engulf Sam in a bear hug, feeling a tinge of jealousy because  _ How can you touch Sam like that so openly _ ? Bucky would admit it, he wanted an excuse to hold Sam’s hand as they walked in public, but then again, even behind closed doors, he couldn’t  _ get  _ that satisfaction.

“How’re my favorite boys?” Steve spoke, muffled by Sam’s shirt. He pulled away as he planted a sloppy kiss on the top of Sam’s head. Sam pushed Steve away, landing on Bucky; Steve then proceeded to bring Bucky in his arms, almost bringing him in a chokehold, “Oh,  _ Bucky _ , hope you’re wearing something under that—” Steve then begins to unwrap Bucky, only to flush red as he pushed him away, “—nevermind. You two still in your session?”

Sam shrugged. “Still, but we’re almost done,”

“Uh, not to poke, but, uh,” Steve chuckled, raising his hands as he sat on the edge of the bed, “You said that this morning and the sun is  _ setting _ . You two are way past— Jesus, I’m I paying for this? Am I— Am I paying for overtime? Come on. I have charities to run here,” his heart was in the right place, laughing heartily as he nudged Sam with an elbow. The two lovers weren’t as enthusiastic about the claim, only sharing smiles for Steve’s sake, “Kidding. Love you two. I’m here to pick you two up— Burgers on Nat,”

“ _ Suggestive _ ,” Bucky purred, leaning into Steve, laughing at Bucky’s sudden change in demeanor, “And sloppy. I’m in. Always up for free food, I swear, you don’t pay me enough. I want seven grand, damnit,” yet Steve only laughed into Bucky’s shoulder, “Yeah, yeah, love you too,”

Bucky’s eyes settled on Sam staring back at him, and the way that the room had suddenly dimmed, basking the atmosphere in a dirty yellow with a tinge of violet, making it seem that the whole world is stepping off its axis just to bow down to Sam’s throne, it made everything angelic and fantastical; Bucky would kneel on the altar and offer his heart for the world, let it drown in flames and bleed to the very last drop if it would mean that Sam gets to smile at least  _ once _ . 

Atlas would cry out:  _ How can you carry such a burden for long? _ Bucky would only laugh  _ right in his face _ because Sam’s indifference wasn’t a burden — it was the  _ thrill _ . Bucky breathes it in like poison, wanting nothing more to feel the intoxication run through his bloodstream, feel his head lift to the clouds as if drowsy with pleasure, feel his senses numb with overwhelming passion. This love is a bomb within itself, waiting to implode and suck up all the life out of these two, but they held on for so long — with a chair and canvas, they painted what future centuries would believe as pure  _ love _ in the form of art, and the adoration in the details would begin to suffice as proof that Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes had loved and  _ lived _ .

If the former could admit it in the first place…

There’s a hundred-yard stare between Sam and Bucky, and they feel so far away from each other that they begin to forget the make of the other, forgetting what the other  _ felt _ like. Being in each other’s arms, that memory is fading by the second, like sand running through loose fingers, never able to grasp what you truly thought was yours in the first place. It’s  _ suffocating _ — sickening. Sam wanted nothing more than to bury himself in the sheets and disappear forever; forget turning this abandoned building into his makeshift gallery/studio, Sam just wanted to rest, and death looks sparingly today. 

“Yeah, I’ll come with,” Sam spoke, nodding as he shut his sketchpad close, “I’ll make an appointment for you, Steve. Fifty bucks per hour,”

Steve smirked playfully, pulling an arm around an aloof Bucky, “Good thing we have a lot of that,”

Bucky strained a smile at Steve. “Now that’s over with,” he spoke, lifting Steve’s arm around and off of him, “Can you go wait outside? Gotta go put on some clothes and help Wilson with cleaning up,” his smile turned into a mix of a frown and a pout, “You wouldn’t want to help…”

Steve snorted as he stood up, smoothing his coat as he said, “I won’t keep you too busy. If you need me, I’m in the handsome white Buick,” he twirled his car ring on his finger as if to show off his new toy, “and, again, Bucky, it’s  _ Sammy _ ,” he sent a wink to Sam’s glowering face, and no sooner had Steve slowly jogged back into the double doors and out of the ballroom, the banging close of the main doors echoing in the far distance.

“Sam—”

“Look, Bucky,” Sam spoke, raising his hand as he absentmindedly fidgeted with his charcoal, “What we did… I’m not saying it was a mistake. What I’m saying is…” he exhaled for a moment, his eyes turning sadder as he sent it to Bucky, nice and blunt, “I don’t want it,”

Bucky interrupted, “Did I make you uncomfortable? I’m sorry. It won’t happen like that again,”

“No,” Sam shook his head, eyebrows furrowing deep, “No, I don’t want it to  _ happen _ again. We weren’t— I… This—” he motioned to the two of them, almost as if breaking down; his nerves were on fire, and he wanted nothing more than to lie back down and  _ rest _ , “—can’t work. We were supposed to be professional,  _ damnit _ . Barnes, Bucky, I… I don’t… I don’t want to see you again, I-I need you to leave. Pack your things. This contract is over,” he bit down his lip, Bucky forming what he wanted to say but Sam burst out, saying, “But I  _ want  _ to see you again,” he ran his hands at the back of his head, sighing heavily, “I want to— I can’t— I can’t  _ love _ you— o-or like you, I’m… I’m  _ so sorry _ . You look at me like I built the fucking sun, and I just  _ can’t do that _ ,” his eyes stung with tears, and Bucky moves towards him, engulfing Sam in an embrace with Sam resting on his shoulder, whispering, “I can’t  _ love _ , Barnes,”

Bucky heaves slightly, a little breathless as he clutches on Sam as if he was the most fragile thing in the world, but that’s not true; Sam was forged with iron in his veins and stardust in his eyes, practically glittering with strength. “You can. You  _ have _ ,” he whispered into Sam’s ear. Bucky took a moment to feel Sam’s weight, closing his eyes as Sam sniffled quietly, practically echoing in the silence, “I love you. I love you. I love you.  _ I love you _ ,” he wrapped his arms around Sam much tighter now; Sam fixed his arms around Bucky, limp and idle, “I  _ love _ because of you. You made me  _ love _ , Sam Wilson,  _ you _ made me  _ love _ so much I would die right here if you told me to,” he shakes now, his fingers becoming numb at how much he  _ starves _ for this. Bucky rocked themselves, to a slow reggae beat that leaves one gasping for more, “and I probably have— I will. I will, my God, I will, Sam, I  _ do _ ,” he sniffled now, Sam exhaling a shaky laugh, “I have, I will, I do. Damned are those who think not, but I think you have love right in your bones, practically pouring love right now… I… I turn breathless every time you  _ exist _ and it’s a pain in the heart I’ve longed for so long. I love you… I love you so much… and you have, my love, you  _ have _ ,”

The two hold onto each other like a lifeline, beginning to think of ways how they could make it work, because they wanted to — they  _ badly _ wanted to. They needed something right, reasonable, and rational, and they weren’t in a hurry. If they stayed like this, unbothered and together, they could have all the time in the world. No one’s stopping them, and no one’s rushing them. They could open the doors whenever they wanted to because it’s  _ theirs _ and it’s the home that they’ve built from the start.

“What does this mean…” Sam whispered, setting his forehead on Bucky’s shoulder.

“We could…” Bucky trailed off, then he became silent, “What do  _ you _ want?”

Sam sighed, saying, “I  _ want _ ,”

“That’s good. I’d get everything for you then.”

“That’s… good,” Sam hummed, feeling much lighter now, feeling full and drowsy at the same time, “We’ll… make it work then…”

“We’ll make it beautiful,” Bucky said, pressing a small kiss on Sam’s forehead, rubbing circles on his back, “We… Well— We can start by…”

“Yeah.”

Bucky furrowed his eyebrows, biting his lip, “I don’t… We can still… right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” Sam spoke, letting go of Bucky, their hands still intertwined as they sat up straighter now, “We… The only thing holding us back is… the contract, right? We can start by terminating that,”

“But for what?”

“I…” Sam furrowed his eyebrows, almost in a daze, “Steve. Steve’s paying you,” then in a moment of gusto, Sam almost jumped in his seat, his eyes wide as he continued, “You still got that British client?”

Bucky nodded hesitantly, “Yeah, the one after ours, but what are you getting on?”

Sam gripped their hands, “Take it, James,” he bit down his tongue, almost regretting what he said, but Bucky is still here; they wanted this, and they shall take it, “It’s  _ your _ excuse. I know you don’t like England, but it’s one way you can terminate  _ our _ contract. Come back soon, then we’d meet each other again—”

“That deal is three months long!” Bucky hissed, “I can’t… No, wait,  _ I will _ . I’d come back, you work on that project you’ve wanted for so long—”

Sam shook his head frantically. “I-I don’t want that. I can’t do that, I don’t have the time for that,”

“Three months, Sammy,” Bucky beamed, “Four weeks before our contract ends, and you’d still have all the time in the world— I’d give you that time. I’d manage for you. I’d grind time from hourglasses for you. All I need you to do while I wait is to do something you’re passionate about.  _ Create _ . We’re artists and we bleed creativity, it’s what we are put in the world for,” his eyes stung with tears as Sam tried his best to stifle his sadness; this emotion built up inside of them, because artists don’t really get recognized — they bleed on paper just so a few good people could recognize the colors they made, “I’d rather you create… than… to miss me,”

Sam gasped, chuckling as he ran a hand through Bucky’s hair, practically nuzzling into Sam’s warmth. “Oh, baby, three months and more are enough to miss you with,” he smiled, breathless as Bucky looked up at him with stars glinting in his eyes, “Don’t forget what you do this for.  _ Inspire _ . I want you to be the muse of anyone you’ve crossed paths with— No, don’t interrupt me, Buck,” he laughed as he playfully smacked Bucky, absolutely thrilled by their tenderness, “I don’t care if I’m not the only person who sees you in an intimate setting anymore. I want you to do your  _ job _ , I want you to  _ create _ , I want you—”

Sam suddenly grabbed Bucky by the jaw and brought their foreheads together, and with closed eyes, they stayed like this, feeling the other’s breath tickle their faces, absolutely succumbing to the intimacy they had bestowed for themselves. 

“I want you to remember me when you create art,” Sam whispered. Bucky hummed, furrowing his eyebrows even deeper, “I want you to create  _ art _ ,”

“Hun,  _ we already are art _ ,” Bucky spoke in Latin. Sam smiled; he knew what Bucky meant.

They went over the details and everything fell into place. It’s not forever that they won’t see each other — they have mutual friends for that, and who’s to say they can’t turn into friends to lovers? The stars can wait, they can change their course; Sam and Bucky are writing their fates and they decided theirs would tie in together, for better or for worse.

“Steve will ask. We’d just tell him I don’t want to draw anatomy anymore,” Sam lazily whispers, humming into Bucky’s warmth as he closed his eyes; his lips turn into a smile, feeling how Bucky’s body shakes gently with laughter, “I never wanted to draw people anyway. They’re too complicated.  _ Problematic _ . Ugh, if I had a dollar for every nag Steve gave me on practicing anatomy… I could have paid you myself in cash,”

Bucky snorted, nuzzling his nose into Sam’s hair. “Yeah. You’re right. You always liked to draw animals. You could start that biology gallery you always wanted— I’d take you everywhere if you want to. Explore… Just… being together…” he grew silent, inhaling the scent of Sam, feeling content as it is.

“I like the way you think. Have I told you that?” Sam whispered.

Bucky whispered, “I like you. Have I told you that?”

“Shut up you poet. We have to leave,” Sam whispered, wringing his hands behind Bucky’s back.

Bucky began to put back on his clothes, picking up his button-up shirt and pants which were folded on the floor. Sam was on the opposite end of the bed, putting his materials back into his messenger back. Taking a step back, the situation looked almost domestic, and they wanted that, still couldn’t believe that they’d  _ have _ it soon — the possibility of this being granted to them; it all seems too surreal. The room is now basked in darkness, the sun now had set in the horizon; the motion lights then turned on, lighting up the entire expanse, and it’s strange to think this ballroom could look like a gym in the wrong lighting when it had just looked like a seventeenth-century castle a while ago. 

The way down the ballroom was quiet as the lights flickered off on their own, Sam and Bucky walking close together with their shoulders always brushed past against each other. Bucky had Sam’s bag over his shoulder as they walked, Sam putting on Bucky’s jacket around him after Bucky had blatantly offered it. It felt nice to feel this soft after so much painful unrequited love they mistook for indifference; it’s nice to pour their love to someone else. After Sam had closed the ballroom doors, Bucky had then carefully intertwined their hands together, wanting to walk down the expansive hallway with the feel of Sam on his fingertips. 

They take it slow, almost dancing to the symphony their hearts conducted, and it’s gorgeous, how much they had craved and how much they fed on it. Stopping at the main doors, Sam exhaled a shaky breath as Bucky squeezed his hand, saying, “We start here,” Bucky sent Sam a smile, and by the second they’re beaming with stars in their eyes.

This is where the love story between the artist and the model end, but it’s Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes’ turn, finally having that chance to rewrite the love story of Achilles’ with their own, changing the names and ending; they’re both into the art life, it’s how they met. They know how to look at the painting, and they know what colors would make it beautiful; they know how to make it  _ real _ , and it’s all they’ll ever need.

They let go of their hands, but they don’t feel any colder as soon as the night air hits them. They see Steve sitting on the hood of his car staring at his phone screen, parked right in front of the staircase of the building. The horizon is full of pine trees, a seemingly endless dirt path leading out of the vicinity and there weren’t any stars, but the moon was up there, somewhere behind the clouds, waiting for the stars to stop cowering and disperse into clusters of stardust, like diamonds spilled on a black carpet, they’ll decorate the luxury of love as if a desiring lover who finally got it all.

Sam insisted he drives while Steve takes the passenger’s seat, Bucky in the back; the drive back into the city was long and quiet save the noise from the woods, basking the entire atmosphere into unparalleled tranquility, especially when Bucky began to play electro swing, but pay no mind to that, the two lover’s veins were running with iron and rose petals, invigorated with strength and need. It’s right —  _ they _ were right.

They’d have their moments, and they'd turn it into a collection of masterpieces. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on @honestlyfrance and maybe I'd go babble more about the AU! anyone who wants to look for more "Bucky Barnes is a Poet" content can go ahead to @poetbucky :D (both on tumblr!)


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